


Let it Sing

by 1848pianist



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1848pianist/pseuds/1848pianist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raoul and Christine, because there's not enough fanfic in the world for this ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let it Sing

Voice tired from a rehearsal that had seemed to last an eternity, Christine hardly bothered to slip off her sandals before collapsing on the couch for a power nap. Life at the opera was hectic and demanding as ever, but compared to the terror with Erik the year before it felt like a vacation.            

            She had hoped to catch at least an hour of sleep before the performance that night, but she could already hear Mozart playing rather shrilly from her phone’s speakers.

            “Hello?” she asked tiredly, making a mental note to change her ringtone – Mozart was an Erik sort of composer. (Lately, music, along with the rest of her life, was separated into two categories – “Erik” and “normal” – and Mozart was solidly in the former group. A shame, really, Mozart had such wonderful concertos.)

            “Hello, love,” Raoul’s voice greeted her. Christine smiled; Raoul was usually unavailable until after her performances, if at all, these days, due to his responsibilities as the Comte d’Chagny. A call so early was well worth losing a little sleep over.

            “How did you manage to sneak away from all your ‘political duties’?” Christine teased, thinking of his distant-yet-still-intimidating relations who occupied so much of his time.

            “It must be my natural charm,” he replied, laughing in return. “Anyway, I managed to free myself for the rest of the night, so how would you like to have dinner with me after the performance? Assuming you’re not too tired, of course?”

            “Well, I was _just_ about to take a nap,” Christine joked. “I’d love to have dinner, Raoul,” she said more seriously.

            “I’ll meet you backstage, then. Get some sleep,” he said.

            “I think I will just about be able to function for the performance.”

            They exchanged their usual farewells (good luck, goodbye, I love you, I love you,  I love you) and Christine finally got her nap, feeling that today was turning out much better than expected.

 

            Performances were by nature draining, but the knock on the door of her dressing room brought Christine’s energy rushing back.

            “Hello, love,” Raoul greeted her when she opened the door, kissing her cheek and presenting her with a white rose – her favorite since her days as Little Lotte. “You were wonderful, Christine. No, perfect!” he said, smiling. Christine smiled in return at his honest, abundant compliments, so different from Erik’s cold, masterful pride. That was how Raoul was: endlessly, openly kind, and Christine loved him for it.

            “Thank you,” she said warmly. “Where to, my love?”

            “You’ll see,” he promised, leading her out of the opera and into the no doubt expensive car he had at his disposal, thanks to his family. Christine was entirely unused to such luxury (at the opera, luxury was only seen at a distance), but she admitted it was easier to become accustomed to than other things that came with being with Raoul. The constant press exposure was not something Christine enjoyed.

            After they had driven well past many of their usual restaurant choices, it became clear that Raoul was not planning to have dinner in Paris.

            “Here we are,” he announced at last. Christine looked at him in surprise; they were in the drive of the Chagny house, which by Christine’s standards was hardly short of a mansion. She had been there only once before, when she had first met Raoul’s relatives.

            “I thought it could just be the two of us for the evening,” he explained. “It’s a bit lonely, really, this place,” he continued, “but it’s good for getting away from the city.”

            “And the media,” Christine added.

            “Yes, and the media,” Raoul agreed laughingly.

            He led her to a small room in a corner of the house, which according to him was far more suitable for dinner than the much larger dining hall, and disappeared momentarily to return with food that looked positively delicious to Christine, who hadn’t eaten since well before the performance.

            “Raoul,” I didn’t know you cooked,” she said delightedly.

            He smiled slightly, looking embarrassed. “I don’t, not really. I ordered out, actually. I hope you don’t mind.”

            “That’s alright,” she said, kissing his cheek fondly. “Cooking isn’t among my talents either.”

            Raoul laughed gently, curling her hair around his finger before sitting down beside her. As they ate, however, Christine began to think that Raoul was acting strangely.

            “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You seem almost nervous.”

            “I’m fine. Great,” he replied, smiling sincerely enough to convince Christine that he was being truthful.

            “I’d like to see the rest of the house,” Christine said when they had finished eating.

            “Really?” Raoul asked. “It may look impressive, but it’s not particularly interesting, believe me.”

            “I’d still like to see it,” she persisted. “You’ve been to my apartment, after all, and I practically live in the opera anyway.”

            “Fair enough,” he agreed. “I’ll try to show you the least dull of the rooms, at least.”

            “Good idea,” she concurred.

 

            “So,” she said as they walked through impossibly long hallways and ornate rooms, “what did you have to do to get all this to yourself for the evening?”

            Raoul grinned. “It wasn’t that hard, actually.”

            “You don’t mean to say that the Chagny family has come to approve of the lowly, corrupting opera singer, do you?” she asked in mock amazement.

            “I think it’s less approval and more to do with the fact they’ve given up on me. And anyway, now that I’m a Comte I think they’ve decided it’s more trouble than I’m worth to stop me seeing you anymore.”

            “Well, I’m glad of it,” Christine  said, kissing him happily.

            “As am I.” Raoul then dramatically opened the doors to the ballroom. It was stunningly magnificent room, with a full wall of windows reflected in the perfectly polished wooden floor.

            “It’s beautiful,” Christine said, awestruck.

            “It is,” Raoul agreed, “but pointless, as it’s hardly used. It’s like hearing what a lovely voice you have and then never allowing you to sing.”

            “Well, let’s let it sing, then,” Christine said, pulling him on to the shining floor.

            “I haven’t danced with you since you were twelve years old,” Raoul remarked as they waltzed to nonexistent music. 

            “And I still believed in faeries and angels and goblins,” she replied.

            “Christine,” Raoul whispered into her hair.

            “Yes?” she asked as their feet stopped moving together.

            Raoul dropped to a knee in front of her, still holding her hands in his. “Will you marry me, Christine?” He pulled a ring from his pocket – a simple band with a ruby that Christine knew would exactly match a scarf she had worn long ago, if she cared to check.

            “Yes, Raoul – yes!” She pulled him back to his feet, kissing him blissfully as he placed the ring on her finger.

            “Dance with me, Christine,” he said. Christine could have sung with joy.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bad at cute romance someone stop me


End file.
